The amazingly unlikely true story of how a grumpy old man and lifelong bachelor won the love of a beautiful young woman and started a family – and all by writing a curmudgeonly blog about his lonely journey to the grave.

Now who would have predicted that?

Thursday, 2 July 2015

Are I two, Mummy?

Today we are officially halfway through 2015, meaning that I am officially a useless blogger for having failed to post anything at all since last December.

In my defence I am an old man, with the inevitable ravages of age on my energy levels undoubtedly exacerbated by obesity.

I never said it was going to be a good defence.

Still, there is undoubtedly some progress to report. Yesterday, when Mrs H picked our now six-year-old boy up from school, his form teacher mentioned that there was a letter for us in his book bag.

“Yes,” said Charlie proudly. “I’m going to be in Form 3 next year!”

“That is supposed to be a private letter to your parents, Charlie.”

Still, at least it demonstrates that he can read, and that the taxpayers’ investment in his education has not been entirely wasted.

I guess it also demonstrates a modicum of curiosity and initiative, neither of which is altogether unwelcome.

Meanwhile his younger brother is three, and very focused on being so. Quarter him a sandwich for his tea and he will only eat three pieces. Offer him a sweet and he will demand three as follows:

“Are I two, Mummy? Are I two? No, I are three. So I have to have three sweets.”

Last week we decided that the time had come to begin giving the six-year-old some pocket money, and fixed on £2 a week as an appropriate starting rate.

“What about me?” asked the three-year-old.

“Do you think we should give Jamie some pocket money as well?’ asked Mrs H.

“Yes,” said Charlie.

“All right, Jamie. You can have two pounds a week as well.”

“No, I have to have three pounds, because I’m three.”

“Well that’s not fair because I’m only getting two pounds, and I’m six.”
And so on.

We had my 90-year-old aunt to stay last weekend, and on Monday I picked her and Jamie up from home before collecting Charlie from school.
Shortly afterwards, in the fairly narrow lane between the school and our house, we met a bus coming the other way at some speed.

“Oh, shit!” yelled Jamie from his car seat in the back.

“Is that a nice word to use in front of your Great Aunt?”

“No,” said Charlie. “But once Mummy said ‘Oh, shit!’ so now Jamie always says ‘Oh shit!’ when we nearly hit something.”

Whether it’s confidential letters or the occasional expletive, nothing gets past these children.
Given that they live with me, the only puzzle is that their conversation does not consist entirely of barrack room swear words and politically incorrect allusions. Mrs H suggests that this is because “even they know it is wrong” and are therefore clearly more mature than I am.

No comments:

About Me

Keith Hann is a serial quitter: professionally as a historian (the last days of the British Empire), then an investment analyst (the last days of the British food industry) and finally as a financial public relations consultant (the last days of pretty much any company that was deluded enough to hire him). In each case he packed it in just when there might have been some chance of making a few quid out of it. Then there is his personal life score: engagements 4, marriages 1. For the last few years Keith has been indulging himself as a hobby journalist. It seems unlikely that he will ever make a living out of this. And if he ever shows signs of making it Big, his resignation will be going straight into the post. In November 2007 Keith started blogging (a) to take the mickey out of the genre, (b) because a misguided friend told him that it was the ideal way to secure his Big Break as a writer, and (c) to chronicle the final days of a dying breed of solitary English curmudgeon. Nothing remarkable about any of that, except that it somehow convinced a beautiful, funny young woman that she had finally met the man of her dreams. As we always say Up North, there’s nowt so queer as folk.